What Begs Our Forgiveness
by Salome Weil
Summary: After she lost Ron in the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione thought she'd never find love again. Now the Ministry has forced her hand with its increasingly restrictive laws for single witches and wizards. Will she be able to move forward by going to the matchmakers, or will the past continue to haunt her? Meanwhile, a certain blonde, posh Quidditch player faces questions of his own...
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I do not own any part of the HP universe/franchise. All rights to JK and co. See the end for notes.**

 **This is a sequel to What Breaks Us Apart and a prequel to What Brings Us Together.  
**

* * *

Hermione hurried down the street, pulling her coat closer about her petite figure as she shivered in the chilly winter air. Darkness was falling earlier each day and she knew she needed to make it indoors before the night watch began. Her bank account was fine, that wasn't what concerned her about the hefty fines single witches and wizards were subject to when out past curfew. No, it was her dignity and integrity that was at stake. Her mind wandered back to her last conversation with her supervisor at the ministry.

" _Miss Granger, it's positively unseemly that a witch of your stature, of your potential, is so unrealized at this point in her career. Perhaps if you had fewer citations on your record…"_

She shivered again, not from the cold, and increased her pace. Had it been so dark just a moment ago? Had the shadows been so long? Hermione ducked her head against another chill wind and broke into a light jog, her work satchel banging uncomfortably against her legs. She was just passing through the main street of Diagon Alley, coming abreast of the twins' joke shop, when a commotion caught her ear. She lifted her head in the direction of the sounds and her steps slowed.

The night watch was out already and they had accosted a tall, ginger wizard who was just exiting the front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Hermione hesitated only a moment more before making what she hoped would be a mutually beneficial decision.

"There you are!" she called out. The small clump of people all turned, startled, and to her gratification she saw a smile break out across the face of whichever twin she was rescuing.

"Excuse us, Miss Granger," the witch who was part of the watch team demurred as Hermione neared them. "We didn't realize…" She gestured to the twin beside them – Fred? Yes, both ears. Fred.

"Yes, well, it's not set in stone, is it? We were trying to keep our private lives private," Hermione replied, bristling, and was glad her ire was real enough. She smiled prettily at Fred, who smiled back at her, then at the night watch, disarmingly.

The wizard on the watch team glanced from ginger to brunette, disbelief etched on his face. "You're not listed on the matched list," he began, but was cut off when the door to the shop opened and a second ginger stepped out.

"Fred, I told you to go on ahead," he said, but his words were lost as he accidentally barreled into the watch wizard, whose obvious disbelief appeared to be growing larger by the second.

"Er, Miss Granger, this is very out of the ordinary," his partner said softly, her big blue eyes flicking between the twins and the war hero witch.

Fred grinned, clicking his teeth as he smiled like a Cheshire cat with Alice between his paws. "Not at all," he murmured conspiratorially. "I'm their chaperone."

Hermione huffed, George blushed, and the watch team blustered.

"This is ridiculous," she finally said, though she was sure her cheeks matched the twins' hair. "Can we please just go on our date?"

"Yes," the witch said at the same time her partner muttered, "No." Then, her face growing furious and blue eyes still troubled, the watch witch grabbed her partner by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away. He was still attempting to squabble at her as they rounded a corner.

Fred laughed and waved cheerfully at the pair; George joined him after a moment; and Hermione sighed and drew her coat close about herself again.

"Well, where do you want to eat?" she asked.

Fred's laughter died down and he turned to look at George first, then her. "You're serious?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm serious! I've already had two citations just this month. My supervisor is suspicious and threatening not to promote me, and I've had to change my phone number, not to mention my floo, three times in the last year because of all the interfering witches and conniving wizards determined to throw themselves in my path! And if you think that night watch won't report this back to their department and investigate our date thoroughly, then hit us with some outrageous and completely made-up fine first thing in the morning, you're loonier than Lovegood! Now, _where do you want to eat?_ "

George shook his head. "I am not going out. I told the ministry watch group when this all started that they could fine me all they wanted. Fred, have a good time."

"Too late, George," Hermione said, face a complete blank. "He already said he was chaperoning _us_. That means you go, too. Now get over yourself and pick a place. I'll buy, for Merlin's sake."

George hesitated, as if steeling himself against a tidal wave of rage – or perhaps laughter – or perhaps _resignation_ – and closed his eyes. "If you buy, they'll be even more suspicious. I'm buying."

Fred looked delighted. "Excellent! I know just the place."

George leveled a glare at him. "I'm not buying yours, you idiot."

Fred actually looked crestfallen, and Hermione felt a corner of her lips twitch upward. "I'll buy yours, Fred," she offered. He looked like a cheerful spaniel once again.

"You know what that will make them think," George said, and Hermione eyed him for a moment, then shrugged.

"Maybe it will get them off my case for a while," she replied, and then started in the direction of the food district, leaving the gob smacked twins to trail behind her.

Fred, gleeful in his role as chaperone, left them alone at their table far too often throughout their quiet dinner. Hermione merely shook her head every time he got up, claiming the loo, or the bar, or something even more facetious. George didn't even bother shaking his head. He instead remained focused on his food, or his drink, or the wall. Hermione gave him a small smile.

"You don't go out much, do you?"

"No reason to," he replied, and though he was clearly avoiding looking at her, his voice was easy and his manner not unkind. She nodded.

"Except for the twenty-five reasons they give us, you mean."

"Mating laws. As if we were cattle," George responded, his voice gone soft. "It's sick. In some ways it's no better than what the Dark Lord wanted. Their own experiment in eugenics. Not that they'd ever call it that."

"Or tolerate it being called that," Hermione added. She glanced off, over the small, but crowded restaurant's dining room and brooded. "The thing is, I know I'm going to have to give in. Go to the matchmakers."

George gave a start and nearly dropped his fork. "Hermione."

"What? It's not like I can stop it. I spent so long trying to stop it my options are all gone. This is it. This is the world we're stuck with, unless I want to move to…America." She wrinkled her nose.

Hermione felt a weird tension radiating off of the man seated across from her and looked up to find him staring at her, his face reddened, one hand clenched around his utensil.

"I'm sorry," he offered. "It's easier for us, for the wizards."

"It always is," she replied. "I don't suppose…" she deadpanned, and George had to laugh at that.

"You wouldn't make a very good wizard, Hermione," he said and she realized he'd mistaken her meaning. That, or the very thought of her brought up too many memories. Or just one very large memory, too big to ever forget. But she couldn't hold that against him. His shock of red hair brought up the exact same memory for her.

"Fred hasn't been yet. To the matchmakers," George qualified at her silence and she suddenly saw he had not mistaken her meaning at all. He just wasn't sure what to do when the focus was on himself.

"Oh, George," she replied, "we would be horrible together."

"Probably," he admitted. Fred came back at that point and settled in beside his twin.

"Well? How are we? Any plans for more grandbabies for mum yet?"

"Hardly," George responded. Then he pushed away from the table. "My turn for the loo, brother. Be nice while I'm away."

Hermione watched him go, a wistful look on her face, and Fred leaned closer. "He hasn't been to the matchmakers yet," he offered, and it made her laugh.

"He just said the same thing about you," she explained into his confusion and he glowered.

"Did he? That wanker," he expelled, but his voice was cheerful and relaxed as ever. There was a brief lull and he leaned back, looking at her thoughtfully. "But I suppose Ron…"

"You suppose right," Hermione replied quickly, cutting off that conversation before George could come back and make it that much worse with a double helping of ginger hair, easy smiles, and a dusting of freckles. "Now, let's get the check and you can escort me home."

Fred hesitated a moment more, then nodded and lifted a hand, signaling for their waiter.

* * *

In the end, Fred had bought dinner for all three of them. "Let the watch dogs make what they will of that," he'd said, chortling as he signed the receipt with a flourish. Then they had spent a quiet walk back to one of the ministry-designated apparating points, each lost in their thoughts: Fred marching along behind the "happy" couple by exactly two meters, and George trying hard not hold Hermione's hand too tightly, though it was difficult to gauge when one was as nervous as he clearly was. Hermione finally wriggled her hand from his grasp and wound it about his arm instead.

"Thanks for playing along tonight," she murmured quietly, in the practiced way of lovers. No night watch team would suspect they were anything but out on a much desired date.

"It's entirely Fred's pleasure," George replied, offering a cheeky grin. Hermione felt her own lips curve in an answering smirk and she shook her head.

"I'm sure it is," she replied, catching a backwards glance at their still gleeful companion. Then she faced forward again and slowed to a stop. George paused as well and glanced down at her.

"Will you be all right?" he asked and she nodded.

"Of course. Just a quick trip home from here." The dejection that was clear in her voice could easily be mistaken by a stranger for sorrow at ending a lovely evening, but George knew better. He knew the brightest witch of her age was thinking that this was her last free evening in a long time; that she'd be giving her name to the matchmakers in the morning; that her world as she knew it was being forced to end, all over again, by dictatorship of a different kind.

He wished he could help, but all he felt was helplessness. So instead of bravely offering himself, he did the only thing he could think of, which was to lean down and very quickly press a kiss to her cheek.

"Cheer, up, Hermione," he said when he drew back. "You'll get through this."

"Thank you, George. I know that, I guess." She hesitated as she looked up at him and a single snowflake drifted down to land on the end of her nose. She laughed ruefully and wiped it away before George could do it for her and regret it for the rest of his life. Or would he regret not doing it?

Whichever it was, Hermione saw something in his face and for a moment, her own expression softened in response. "Will you be ok?" she asked.

George's face relaxed back into its easy smile as Fred came up behind him, throwing an arm about his shoulders.

"Of course," he replied. "I've got this idiot to look after."

Fred cuffed him about the ears and George ducked his head, laughing, as the snow began to drift down in wide circles around them. It was a pretty picture and Hermione tucked it away in her memories. She loved this family _so much_.

"See you all later," she called out before turning and stepping onto the apparating point. George and Fred raised their opposite hands to wave goodbye, one arm each still about the other's shoulders, but they were too late. Hermione had already twisted away into the increasingly cold night without a sound.

* * *

"This is asinine! For all intents and purposes I am living like a Muggle and yet they expect me to pay _what_ in taxes to a ministry that has _never_ done me _any_ favors!"

The scroll went hurtling towards the wall and Walt, Draco's personal assistant, ran back to fetch it. He was glad when he had to kneel to pick it up, because just at that second a tape dispenser followed it, leaving a dent in the wall. Fortunately it bounced away without hitting him.

"If I may, Sir?" he began, straightening up and bringing the scroll and tape dispenser with him. At a slight nod from Draco, Walt continued. "You may be living like a Muggle some of the time, but you aren't one. And unless you want the ministry to properly make you a Muggle by binding your magic, which I doubt they would at this point in time, then you're just going to have to pay the piper, so to speak."

"Blast it, I know all that," Draco replied, sinking back down into his overly plushy office chair. He waved a hand and brought the scroll and tape dispenser out of his assistant's hands and back to rest on the desk in front of him. Walt murmured a quiet thank-you and walked back over to his own chair and roll-top desk in the corner. He watched his superior brood for a moment, then turned back to his work. Living like a Muggle, indeed. Hilarity. After all, the great Draco Malfoy, that infamous coward of the Wizarding War, made his living playing _Professional Quidditch_. The man didn't know how to survive without performing some sort of spell every ten minutes, _at least_. Using tape instead of a sticking charm and taking the tube to and from work every morning hardly equated to _living_ like a _Muggle_. Of all the arrogant…his thoughts dissolved away under the weight of his work and the office was blessedly quiet once more. Of course, it didn't last.

After a few seconds of silence, Draco's voice broke into his train of thought again.

"Make an appointment for me," he said, his tone all business once again. Walt glanced up, surprised.

"With whom, Sir?"

"With the matchmaker," Draco replied, sighing noisily. Then, in the face of his assistant's astonished silence, he unrolled the scroll demanding an unruly sum in Singles Taxes; amended it to request an extension and signed it; and then threw it back over his shoulder and into his office's fireplace, where it vanished into a green flame.

"Make it for today, if you can," he offered further when he saw the stunned expression on Walt's face. "I only asked for a ninety day extension. I'm not sure how much time they'll actually give me and in my experience, wooing a witch takes some doing."

Walt found his voice. "What on earth are you going on about, Sir? You can't actually – I mean, you? You're Witches Weekly's Most Eligible Bachelor!"

Draco couldn't help smirking slightly at the title. He was, wasn't he? What he also was, was unfortunately single and subject to an unfair tax rate that was soaking him dry.

"Not anymore, Walt," he replied. "My days of carefree carousing are coming to an end." He paused and took in the continued astonishment of his assistant. More gently, as if he was explaining to a child, Draco stated, "I'm getting married."

The minute the words were out of his mouth, Draco felt a strange sensation come over him. He stood up again and braced both hands on his desk. His smile was just a little brighter, his eyes shiny with either a fever or rage, Walt couldn't tell, and he announced it to the room again, as if he were convincing not just himself, but the entire Wizengamot.

"So help me," Draco said, confidence and confusion rolling off him in waves. He grinned and if it was a little mad, Walt couldn't blame him.

" _I'm getting married."_

* * *

 **AN, again: This is a sequel to What Breaks Us Apart and a prequel to What Brings Us Together. The one began as an experiment, the next as a longer experiment, and now here I am, before What Brings Us Together is even finished, writing the back story to it. However, I felt it was a story that needed telling in order for me to move ahead with the other. So, without further ado, I present to you another gem in my long list of procrastination creations. Please let me know what you think and I'll keep working at it.**

 **And while our doubtful pair ultimately does not get a happily ever after (if you've read What Brings Us, etc.), I will give them a happy ending in this piece. There's enough sorrow in the world. So, expect weird, expect angst, expect tenderly building romance and contentment. Multi-chapter and I'll do my best to keep the momentum going. If, however, there isn't a market for this particular story, let me know that too, and I'll shut up and finish my other stories. Love and cheers.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own no part of the HP franchise. All rights belong to JK Rowling, Scholastic, and WB. I make no money off this work.**

 **AN: I've had this chapter sitting around a while. Still world building, character building. Hold on, folks. I believe this is going to be what they call a "slow burn."**

* * *

"You're sure you don't want someone to go with you?" Fleur asked for the fourth time that afternoon.

Hermione nodded slightly, one shoulder hitching up in a shrug. The witch beside her, Bill's wife and former Beauxbatons Champion, was ordinarily not so solicitous. It was one of the things Hermione liked about her. She could prattle on about politics, or patisseries, or people with equal parts ennui and derision; and she hardly ever gave a thought to voicing her concern for a person. No, instead of asking how someone was, she assumed they were fine until they said so – which had suited Hermione just fine, thank you very much…especially when the Weasley family had unofficially adopted her in the wake of their youngest son's death. Fleur had been the only person who hadn't made a large fuss over Hermione. Instead, she and Bill had offered their cottage to her, if she needed to get away, and their friendship and conversation in lieu of a shoulder to cry on.

That wasn't to say Fleur wasn't the mothering type, or hadn't seen her fair share of Hermione's tears. A flair for the emotional and sometimes melodramatic ran through her the same as anybody; but it was the way she treated Hermione in particular – without the fireworks and nervous glances and multiple cups of tea – that distinguished her fortitude as a friend.

"Well, Bill will be right around ze corner if you change your mind. Ze office is just down ze street from Gringotts. I have an appointment, myself, across London, so it would be difficult to adjust my schedule, but I could do it, if you really need me."

Hermione smiled at her: the same tired smile everyone saw from her these days. "No, Fleur, thank you. It's just another chore to be done at this point in time."

Fleur snorted delicately. "A chore, indeed. Romance is all well and good, Hermione, but ze ministry has ze right of it on zat point, at least! Marriage is hard work."

"But worth it?" Hermione asked, teasing Fleur and not bothering to take offense. Fleur and Bill had been old enough before the war to make their choices before the ministry was making decisions for witches and wizards. She couldn't hold it against them.

Fleur gave a small, secret smile. "It is, little one," she replied. Bill chose that moment to walk into the cottage and he leaned over to give his bride a small peck on the lips. Hermione attempted to hide her smile behind a cough, but Fleur let out a bright peal of laughter.

"What? Did I do something?" he asked and Fleur waved a hand, her laugh dying down to a soft giggle.

"Oh, in that case." Bill leaned down again and planted a longer, more loving kiss upon Fleur, who was smiling at him as if he were the only person in the room. Hermione blushed and glanced out a window, not bothering to hide her smile that time, though it fell flat a moment later.

She wondered if she would ever have what these two had: love, companionship, understanding. Perhaps if I'm very lucky, she thought, those things will grow over time, at the least.

Her lips remained pressed into a thin, sad line and her gaze remained on the horizon, even as Bill and Fleur began to bustle around her, preparing for an early dinner. When little Victoire burst into the room, however, it was very difficult not to smile again. Before she knew it, Hermione was up, out of her seat, and chasing the little girl about the drawing room while her parents chattered quietly to one another in the background.

Hermione felt strongly just then that life was moving too quickly for more sorrow. Perhaps her visit to the matchmakers wouldn't be so painful, after all. Not when chubby hands and bouncing curls were sometimes the result. There would be things to look forward to, things to have out of it all that were worthwhile.

At least, that was what she would keep telling herself.

* * *

Draco allowed several friendly jostles and well-meaning slaps on the back before he pushed past his teammates and set about the business of removing his Quidditch gear. It had been a hard practice, but well worth it. The team was poised for greatness this season, if only...if only…

If only he weren't so tense over his recent decision. If only he could be sure how it would ultimately affect his life, his family, his work…

Someone called his name and he turned slightly to see Walt standing uncertainly in the doorway of the locker room.

"Don't just stand there, for Merlin's sake," he tossed over his shoulder. "Come in. You've been in here before; you're not a blushing bride -" He broke off and shoved some of his gear into the locker with an unnecessary ferocity.

"That was an unfortunate choice of words," Walt said, voice droll. Draco rolled his eyes.

"It's not like it's the end of my life," he retorted. Muttering several scourgifies and a few additional spells for upkeep, he finally slammed the locker door shut. Then he turned to his bag and began rooting about for his shampoo.

"Only the beginning," Walt agreed. Another player shuffled past and Walt moved out of his way smoothly. He noticed Draco pulling out his shower things and pressed his lips together in a thin line.

"Have you forgotten why I'm here so soon after practice, Sir?"

Draco shrugged and glanced up at him. "You're always here after practice. You're my personal assistant -" He broke off again and dropped the hygiene items back into his bag. "The appointment's been moved up," he stated, voice stilted and suddenly pitched higher than usual.

"Right. You asked me to pick you up. The car is outside."

"Hell."

A passing teammate heard the expletive and cast a wry glance in Draco's direction. "S'wrong?"

Draco shrugged and ran a hand through his sweaty hair, made a face, and cast a charm over himself. "Nothing. Just running late for an appointment."

"With a witch?" the other man grunted questioningly.

"Not exactly, no," Draco replied, and began peeling off his practice clothes.

Unfortunately, one teammate's curiosity led to the curiosity of three others, all of whom decided to crowd around the bench Draco had been using. He suddenly worried they might all burst into song, like some cliched Muggle musical, and said as much. They laughed uproariously at that and Walt rolled his eyes this time. He huffed slightly and inserted himself closer to Draco.

"Sir...the time?"

One of the other men's brows shot up. "You know, fellas, there's only one sort of appointment that made my P.A. that nervous, and it wasn't your average date."

"What, was she afraid of being replaced?" another player joked, setting off a stream of relatively good-natured ribbing.

Amidst assorted catcalls and other hollering, Draco raised his voice as he straightened a new, clean shirt down his hips and belted his slacks over it.

"Always so astute, Falstaff. Yes, I'm off to the matchmakers. Happy? You've sussed out my big secret." Sarcasm dripped from his honeyed tones and the men laughed even more. "Besides," he added, "the rest of us can't be as lucky as you and marry our P.A.s"

"God forbid," Walt muttered to a continued flurry of laughter, even as the men began to disperse. Assorted well wishes of "good luck" and "about time" filtered through the room; then Walt was stomping ahead of Draco, opening the door, and ushering him through the building and out to the waiting car.

* * *

Hermione Granger had been nervous about many things in her life, at many different moments of her life, and with a naturally anxious, rule-abiding sort of personality, she was a little astonished at herself on this particular day.

She was astonished because she wasn't nervous.

She had been nervous the day before, when she was talking to Fleur, and she had been nervous months before that, when she'd gradually begun to realize that no amount of protests, or lobbying, or money would make her problem go away. She'd fretted over this particular day, this moment, coming to pass, more times in the last year than she could count, but now that it was here...she just _wasn't_.

Her caring had all been spent and now she sat in a minimally comfortable chair in a drably stylish waiting room outside the hellmouth that was the Ministry of Magic's Matchmaking Office: Lead Matchmaker, Parvati Patil.

That alone, given all she knew of her former classmate, should have been enough to warrant at least a hint of alarm, but Hermione Granger instead was feeling quite calm. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, her hands were folded demurely over her pocketbook, and her eyes, while a little dull from lack of sleep, surveyed her surroundings with their usual critical, astute gaze.

She was almost feeling proud of herself, to be honest. With a self-satisfied smile, she took a look at the magazines and periodicals on the end table next to her, rifled through them with one slender hand, plucked one up, and began to read to pass the time.

Her calm remained through her longer-than-expected wait. It lasted through the yelling match that filtered through the office door. It lasted through the harried looking single father who wandered in, a toddler in tow. It lasted through a pair of witches practically canoodling in the chairs opposite her.

It lasted even as her own name was called and she went back for preliminaries, but then her steely courage slowly abandoned her.

It began to fade as the questioning brought up memories of red hair, warm afternoons, and the smell of freshly mown grass. It attempted to linger at the thought of strong arms and hands holding her tight during the most terrifying moments of her life, but the realities of how those moments ultimately ended chased it off for good. She did her best to hold tight to it despite the bittersweet nostalgia that fueled her answers, but she could feel energy suffusing her fingertips, making her lightheaded, causing her stomach to feel like a lead weight.

By the time she was ushered back out to the sitting room, her hands were shaking as she picked up the previously discarded magazine and flipped to the last article she'd been reading. Her eyes scanned the words meaninglessly, reading the same two pages over and over until something distracted her. The single father, toddler now riding high in his arms, his face a little less drawn from the promise of a helpmate, of a mother, a wife. The two witches, faces a little more serious, hands held firm between one another as they promised in quiet tones to make it work anyway. The tearstained face of a witch as she flipped through a magazine, her posture mirroring Hermione's, but the promise of hope bright in her still-wet eyes. _Promises,_ all around her, but they were far from comforting.

Hermione could only think of one promise, running over and over in her mind. Ron, coming back; Ron, so sorry, so tender; Ron, so brave, so fearful, so real; Ron, so stupid, so silly, so...Ron. Ron. _Ron._

That's how fate found her, minutes later: her heartbreak fresh in her mind, on her tongue, like it was yesterday. Her name was called, the magazine slipping from her hands, useless, unprocessed, and she was standing, and walking, and the door closed behind her with a finality she hadn't felt in years.

Even then, she wasn't sure she felt it - if she'd ever feel it. Grief is a hollow thing, after all: long-lived, sharp-toothed, and unpredictable. She forced a smile at Parvati as their session began, officially, and she was almost certain the edges of her teeth were like razors, filling her mouth, making it hard to think, let alone speak.

But of course, it was all in her mind. Her grief curled back on itself under the onslaught of her pragmatism and little by little, her fingers came back under her control, the slender digits still and sure as they smoothed her skirt and folded her coat in her lap. Hermione cleared her throat slightly and Parvati smiled kindly, pouring them both glasses of water.

"Let's begin, Hermione."

Hermione nodded, blinking once, twice, against the image of windswept red hair and sunny days.

"Please," she replied sure footedly. "I've been waiting long enough, I think."

* * *

Unlike Hermione, Draco was nervous and he didn't bother trying to hide it - much. If Walt was being honest, it wasn't the kind of nervous that made his boss say or do stupid things. It wasn't even the level of nervous that might make him back out of the appointment. No, Draco seemed determined to see this through, just like he saw everything else through these days: with style and a carefully coifed disdain that hid his real motives. Or at least, Walt assumed Draco thought his motives were hidden. They were typically plain as day to anyone else, and it hadn't taken being a squib in a family of Slytherins to figure out the young master Malfoy. Still, Walt was oddly optimistic as he whistled away while steering the car around the streets of London.

Even if the witch Draco was eventually matched with knew that he'd only agreed to marry for the tax breaks; even if she was dowdy and a complete harpy; even if she turned out to be a step away from Bellatrix Lestrange level crazy; Walt knew that this was probably going to be one of the best things to happen to him in a long time...and he made six figures working for a narcissistic-come-intellectual jock who let him have the weekends off, and major holidays.

He figured, though, that Draco needed a distraction. All he did was play Quidditch, work, and train. Oh, and he went to therapy. And sometimes he went to clubs and danced for hours until he was dehydrated and would pass out instantly in the car that Walt would quietly wait in, hoping to God his boss wasn't taking any recreational muggle drugs.

Walt thought, he hoped, that maybe getting married would provide that distraction; even if Draco ended up with the quiet, dainty, cuttingly brilliant, and yet devastatingly aloof pureblood he'd overheard Draco's mother describing in detail the other night; as her son continued to throw back fingers of scotch and ignore most of the conversation. It was far easier for Draco to ignore a phone call than a floo-call, Walt had learned, which he figured was exactly why he insisted on a closed floo.

Draco seemed to trace the direction of Walt's thoughts by the unusual, cheerful noise emitting from his pursed lips.

"You think I'm making the right decision?" he asked, his voice quiet - thoughtful - with no hint of the bite it always seemed to carry. Walt wondered briefly if Draco was almost hoping for the same thing for himself - a distraction. Something to live for besides survival, besides not wanting to disappoint a mother who had risked everything to keep him alive.

"Yes," Walt replied without hesitation. He caught a flash of a smile before training his eyes back on the road. "Either way, it's what's right for your bank account. Wasn't that your reasoning?"

Draco snorted softly and ignored him for the rest of the ride. When they arrived, Draco's hesitation at exiting the vehicle was so brief that Walt wasn't sure it had happened. His boss turned and leaned down to talk to him through the open door.

"I don't know how long this will take," he said, and his tone was almost apologetic. Walt smiled back perfunctorily.

"I'm used to waiting for you, Sir," he replied. "Just text me when you're finished. Unless you want me to come in?"

Draco frowned. "Not necessary. Just...take a break, if you want it."

Walt nodded. "Whatever you say, Sir."

Draco gave him a grateful look and closed the door. Walt watched him walk away, then disappear into a building. He wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could stand to flush themselves down a toilet. Then he shrugged, put the car back in drive, and swept along down the street, headed for the nearest parking garage.


End file.
